


naked came I

by Bushwah



Category: Fake AH Crew (Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Cults, Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Amoric Horror, D/s, Dacryphilia, Dehumanization, Depersonalization, Dissociation, Dollification, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Female Jack Pattillo, Gaslighting, Gore, Immortal Fake AH Crew, M/M, Mind Control, Mindbreak, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Praise Kink, Psychological Horror, Spiritual Abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Trans Female Jack Pattillo, Trans Jack Pattillo, Unreliable Narrator, hurt/false comfort, wrenseroticlibrary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22837669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bushwah/pseuds/Bushwah
Summary: When Jack works on her Fakes, she likes to kill them first. Sets up the respawn machine to wake them up already dosed with what she's picked out, carries them off alone and does what she came to do.This is what she does to the Vagabond.(Disowned work.)
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Ryan Haywood/Jack Pattillo, Ryan Haywood/Michael Jones, Ryan Haywood/Michael Jones/Jack Pattillo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	naked came I

**Author's Note:**

> (This fic has been removed from the [we the clay](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643119) series.)
> 
> This is an FPF fic based exclusively on the Fake AH Crew lore as set forth by Rooster Teeth Productions. This work owes an additional debt of thanks to Wren wrenseroticlibrary.tumblr.com and their collab partner Threatie alastair-made-me-undo-it.tumblr.com, posting collaboratively as Wrespawn on the AO3, for their contributions to the FAHC fandom.
> 
> All major characters in this series are abusive, in that they use abuse tactics in conducting their relationships. However, the degree of trauma they inflict depends on a variety of factors, within and outside their control. Abusive acts committed from a position of extreme power, such as Jack's control over the respawn machine (regarding the crew) or the other Fakes' access to it (regarding outsiders), are both particularly damaging and particularly unjustifiable.

At first, Ryan is too dazed to even be properly betrayed. Jack watches him closely, waiting for the moment of realization. She loves this part, her project putting together the first few pieces. She doesn't need to stop him yet. There'll be plenty of time for correction later.

When she sees it cross his mind, slowly, his body trying to tense, she lifts him out of the clone pod.

She settles him on her hip, gentle but not careful, and holds him close to her as she picks her way through the respawn room. The door opens at her approach. She crosses the hall and takes her hand off his neck to open the door to the orgy room. He's squirming against her, but he still can't shift his weight enough to make her let him go.

Not that it would help him any. It's not like he can _crawl_ to safety. But common sense has never stopped the Vagabond before, and it will take more than common sense to stop him now.

* * *

He can't move.

He tries to struggle. He can't tell what's happening. Jack is there, and someone is carrying him like he's a baby, and he can't see and he can't think and he can't _move_.

The strong arms holding him up aren't rough. They don't have to be. All his fighting back is meaningless, his physical prowess stripped away.

He doesn't even know why. He was in headquarters, he was supposed to be safe, headquarters is the safest place in the world—but this is happening, and he can't stop it, and he can't move; he can only go where he is moved.

It's not a long trip, he doesn't think. Time is strange, warped, memory a cacophony of half-images, but Jack didn't take him up any stairs. And when she sets him down on the bed, the big firm bed that barely buckles under him, he recognizes it. The orgy bed.

Is she going to fuck him? Is that what this is about? She could have just asked, he thinks, petulant. But being a Fake is about never having to ask.

This is happening. He might as well face up to it. He opens his mouth to speak—

* * *

“Ack? S'at you?”

Jack smiles at that, can't help it. Smiles broader at how Ryan fucking panics when he hears his own voice, shaking, as much as he can, and how he settles when she lays her hands on him.

She really should have made time for this sooner.

Gavin did worse with speech, she remembers. Placebo, probably. Ryan didn't know he wasn't supposed to be able to talk. The fear will make it harder.

She tries to keep her excitement out of her voice as she replies: “Yes, Ryan?

* * *

—the fear crashes down on him.

“S'oi' _aw'_?”

His own voice is foreign to him, but Jack's is familiar, safe, home. “You were trying a new drug,” she says, and... that makes sense. He doesn't usually, that's Gavin, but he must have. He's high, or whatever, and he's with Jack. “You wanted me to spot you.”

“S'aw 'ee,” he echoes.

“Yes,” she says, seeming mildly amused. “Spot you, so you didn't do anything to hurt yourself. While you were, as you put it, 'stoned out of your mind.'”

He told her to what? This... doesn't add up, this is wrong. Her hands on his side, petting, stroking gently, feel amazing, but there's something... he doesn't...

“S'naw true,” he mumbles. Her hands—pause.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says sadly. “We could have had it all.”

* * *

She's not disappointed that it's turned out this way. Ryan was always going to be an interesting challenge. He's retained more cognitive function than she was expecting, but that's okay. She only really needs the physical aspects, and those are working as planned.

She stops touching him and sits back, unconcerned that he might be able to follow. He makes a satisfyingly desperate sound, quickly cut off. She takes out her phone, selects 'Mikey' from her contacts, and taps out a text.

“got vag in orgy room. come alone. bring stabby”

“boss?” she gets back.

“out,” she sends. It's not inaccurate; the Kingpin is asleep in their bed. She brought him warm milk, and he drank it tolerantly for her. She isn't sure if he didn't notice the slight alteration in the taste, or if he chose not to mention it for reasons of his own.

Michael sends her an arm, a knife, and a cloud. Jack sends back a heart. She knows he'll come.

Michael doesn't knock when he enters. That's a good sign; he's in the right mindset for this. Jack gestures at Ryan: all yours.

Michael walks right up to him and waves a hand over his face. Jack can see Ryan's open eyes try to refocus, to track the stimulus. But Michael goes too fast and gives up too soon, and Ryan returns to his almost invisible trembling.

“Is he even in there?” Michael asks, too loud in the silence. “Fucking freak.” He's most likely talking about her. Jack doesn't mind. She likes Michael like this: brash and so obviously uncomfortable, a fighter with nothing to fight.

Michael punches Ryan in the stomach, experimental, and Ryan barely curls around the blow, a soft sound escaping him. Michael scoffs incredulously. “What's _wrong_ with him?”

Jack smiles. “He wanted to get fucked up,” she says, “and then he changed his mind. Do try not to kill him.”

* * *

Ryan has a knife collection, and he keeps all of them sharp.

He's not lying when he tells the security officer running a metal detector that his one-hand-open pocketknife is for work. It is for work, and for play, and for mundane tasks like measuring out a length of cord. It's also a lethal weapon, but then, isn't anything in the Vagabond's hands?

Except he isn't lethal, now. And Michael's knife isn't one of his.

All the Fakes use knives under Ryan's authority. He selects them, maintains them, gives them each their purpose. Michael's the only one who hasn't accepted Ryan's offer of a tactical knife.

Ryan knows what he would get for Michael; has known since the first time he fought him. Michael fights like a cat: grip, bite, throw, catch and release. He's the most dangerous when he's above you, but he's also both nimble and tough up close. Ryan doesn't want to change that. He just wants to give Michael _teeth_.

A double-edged blade, short and thick, a weapon for putting someone out of the action. Balanced for throwing, if Michael ever cared to learn. A pleasure to use, powerful. Sharp.

The knife Michael is using is not sharp.

Honestly, it just feels like a regular kitchen knife. One edge, moderately sharp at the tip, which is currently being driven into the meat of Ryan's ass. His neck is at an awkward angle, his head pressed temple-first into the bed. Not really a knife for stabbing.

Although Michael isn't using it as a knife at all, as such; it's like he thinks it's a fucking spear or something. Goddamn amateur, sloppy work. It is absolutely unfair that it still hurts this much.

Ryan's fought him before. Been beaten by him before, on a number of occasions. Unarmed, in a fair fight, Michael will take him nine falls out of ten.

This isn't like that. He doesn't bother trying to tap out. This isn't a friendly spar, and what Michael wants isn't surrender.

In a _real_ fight, Ryan could put Michael down before Michael even knew he was there.

Michael stops, bounces the bed as he dismounts. Michael is... done with him? No, he's coming back. Ryan closes his eyes, shutting out the chaotic mass of undifferentiated color that fills his vision.

In a real fight, neither of them can die.

* * *

Time passes out of order. Ryan doesn't try to sort out the fragments of memory: pain, dominance, torture that is crude and he could do so much better but he can't defend himself and it hurts. It hurts, and he can't convince himself it's part of a plan. This wasn't the plan. He doesn't know if he had a plan. He hopes this wasn't the plan.

He didn't think Michael would do this to his own crewmate. But then again, here, Ryan isn't really the Vagabond, Mogar's equal. He's just Jack's latest project, just a body that's almost a corpse. It's humiliating when Michael fucks him, unimaginative, rutting into his ass, but it's difficult to hold the separation, and the roles blur together. He's Ryan, Vagabond, victim, helpless, was never really one of them; he's Michael's—Jack's— _Michael's_ , he's under Michael; and Michael is incompetent, pathetic, the obvious loser in any game with real complexity, but what does that make him?

Michael is using the knife properly now, sawing at the tendons on the inside of his knee, and it hurts, and Ryan can't do anything. He's not even a participant. He's a life-size doll, hyper-realistic, the latest design, and Michael is practicing his anatomy.

Michael works, and Ryan's body lights up, gradually, with pain and incapacitation and pain. Distantly he thinks Michael is slowing down, getting into the rhythm of the violence, the way he always does, the berserker rage giving way to something almost contemplative. Michael cuts deep, now, and Ryan is—shivering, just slightly; he can feel it as an extra touch to the pain, just short of a literal twist of the knife.

Michael is going to kill him, he realizes. It's hope, not fear; he knows he'll come back. But just as quickly as the hope occurs to him, it's stifled. The respawn room is just across the hall. Michael can be on him from the moment he wakes up. His crew doesn't care—Geoff won't intervene. To the victor go the spoils.

This is hell, and he'll be here forever. Nothing but Michael over him. He'll die, and it'll just keep going, and he'll die and die and die and die...

And then there's sharp words: Jack, calling Michael off. A soft hand on his cheek and a gun against his head. He wakes again, alone. The pod opens. He can't get up. He doesn't care. By the time Jack gets to him, he's already crying.

* * *

She lifts him, effortlessly, saying something he can't hear over the rush of blood in his ears. He loves her. She saved him. He needs her. She can save him. Jack sets him down, so gently. The tears flow from his open eyes. He can't see anything but a blur of color. He doesn't care. He doesn't need to see. All he needs is her.

“There, that's right. You just lie there,” she murmurs, and he loves to be obeying her. “Ssh, it'll be all right. I'm here now. I'll make all the monsters go away.”

Ryan tries to speak. His tongue is heavy in his mouth, clumsy. Like it doesn't want to be wrapped around words. But he has to—he has to—

“'S Mi'l 'onna co' vack?”

“You're scared of him?” she asks, like she _knows_ , and his head rocks in a nod.

“I'll protect you. I promise.”

She's still touching him. She doesn't have to, he's already right where she wants him, but she does anyway and it feels amazing. When she draws away, he feels his skin blurring into the air around him, indefinite, but when she's there, it's better. It's good. It feels good when she touches him.

He's so sleepy. Everything seems distant. There's just him and Jack and something horrible she's keeping away, as long as her attention is fixed on him. She holds him, and it's safe; she'll keep him safe. He is so safe under her.

A thought occurs to him: could I get out of this? He opens his eyes, blinks, lets the kaleidoscope of color wash over him. The room is spinning around them, but she's looking at him steadily, soft and so, so kind.

He doesn't deserve her.

* * *

Later, when he's tense, she just puts her hand across the back of his neck the same way she did when he was under her, and he... can't keep the tension. He goes to look at her and instead of being accusing, quick, reactive, it's slow and hazy. She smiles and his heart leaps. When she sits down next to him he leans on her.

It feels weird, wrong, to be doing this in front of others. But she's holding him and nothing can be wrong. He closes his eyes. People are talking, but he doesn't listen; it's not important. He nuzzles her and she puts her arms around him.

The rest of the crew is staring at her. She has _Ryan_ leaned on her, pliant and trusting, without saying a word, and they're in awe of her. But Ryan isn't thinking about that. It's distant alarm bells, a siren that never gets closer. Just further and further away until it fades into the wind.

“What does the Vagabond think?” and he doesn't hear, doesn't care, until she repeats: Ryan, what do you think? Ryan flinches; he doesn't know, didn't think he was supposed to know. “Love you” he slurs. She chuckles fondly. “He thinks I'm right,” she says, and he murmurs agreement.

* * *

She puts him to bed and he wakes a long time later. He gets up with half-formed plans of getting food but finds himself going to her room instead. He doesn't knock before trying the door, but it's unlocked, and Jack is alone in the love seat.

“You did something to me,” he says, feeling half out of his mind, half more certain than he's ever been. “You made me... in front of everyone.”

She pats the seat next to her and he... stumbles, falls, sits. She bumps up next to him, her hand reaching over to his thigh, and he hates that it clears his mind a little, makes some of the noise resolve into a picture that's making more and more horrifying sense.

“Before. When you... when you drugged me. You did something.”

Jack laughs lightly. “I did several things. Are you telling me you don't remember?”

“You don't get to...”

“Nothing you didn't want. Or have you forgotten that too?” Somehow her hand has gotten around him, around his back, she's holding him and his fists uncurl, the memory coming back to him. “You were begging me to stay with you, honey. I gave you what you asked for, that's all.”

His memories are melting, flowing together, he _asked_ —but he didn't— “Today, though? Yesterday? You, I... when we were...”

“When you fell asleep on me in that meeting, you mean?” She sounds so confident. So sure.

“I did? I guess I did, but I...” He shakes his head slowly. “I didn't want...”

“What? What don't you want?”

She's so patient with him. Hasn't even raised her voice. There's a curl of sickness in his gut that it takes him a moment to identify as shame.

“You have to tell me,” she says reasonably, “or I can't fix it.”

“Don't want you to...”

She waits.

“I don't know,” he confesses. “I don't fucking know, I'm... fuck. I don't _know_ what you did.”

“I'm worried about you, honestly.” He looks up at that, startled, meets her gaze. Calm and serene and just a bit concerned, she's the opposite of how he must look, disheveled and angry, ungrateful. “You haven't been sleeping well, have you?”

“Sleeping... I guess I haven't.” He shakes his head again, more sharply. “But that doesn't mean I wanted you to...”

She reaches for him, pulls him into her lap, and he goes boneless. “So you miss it that much?” and her voice should be different but it's still clear and soft, reassuring even when he knows he cannot afford to be reassured. “Oh, honey. You know I'll always make time for you.”

“Don't,” he says, “you don't have to, please,” and she smiles so sincerely as she says, “Don't worry about it. Really, I don't mind. Hold still for me, yeah?”

It's not until then that it occurs to him that he hasn't been doing anything else.

She brings her sidearm up to his head, her hand heavy on his shoulder, dragging him down. He's not going to be able to stop her in time. He tells himself that's why he doesn't try—why he lies there under her and lets her kill him.

He wakes again. Hears the pod open.

He doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't try to move. He knows already that there's no point. She's going to lift him out, carry him. He just lies limp. He has to get through this, that's all. He just has to get through it.

* * *

“There you are,” he hears her say. “You've been good, hm?”

What? When? When has she given him the chance, when has she not just—

“You came to me right away because you knew you needed help.”

She's touching him and he forgot how good it was; he opens his eyes on reflex and is surprised all over again to not be able to see.

“You were perfect, honey. Oh, but you must have been so lonely.”

Was he? What—he was, she had—

“It's okay. I'm here now. I've got you.”

The light behind her is so bright, it hurts to look at, but she is so beautiful.

“You seemed really upset, honey. But I need to know what's going on with you before I can help.” She's snuggled up right next to him, their bodies fitting together like he was made for her. “So tell me. What's wrong?”

“Don' 'member.”

She's so warm, is the thing. That must be why he's shivering, why he goes still where she touches him. He's cold, and she's so, so warm.

She groans, her arm pressing down on him, holding him still. “Mm, no, you don't,” and he doesn't know what she's talking about but she sounds pleased, amused, like he did something _right_. He hums contentedly. He loves her so much.

“Ryan,” she says after a while, and he—goes alert, as much as he can. “What would you do if you could move?”

“Good,” he says, “I'd be good for you, I swear, whatever...”

She presses close, taking what he can't give, and he lets her; is open to her, absolutely and totally. He has nothing to refuse her, even had he the right, and the desire. He is a speck of dust before her, and she is everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Job 1:21.


End file.
